


Heat of the Chase

by DexxxtroDNA



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Awkward Crush, Begging, Crack, Don't Try This At Home, F/F, F/M, Fantasizing, Fisting, Hiding Medical Issues, Indiana Jones is a fictional character, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Multi, Other, Porn, Racing, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Showers, Starfucker, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Street Racing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, actual lesbian porn kind of, feeling driven to do stupid shit, valve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/pseuds/DexxxtroDNA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smokescreen feels driven to do a lot of stupid things, but this is the dumbest yet. And most awkward. Not much worse than having wild sexual fantasies about everyone you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this grew from a oneshot into The Porn That Never Ends, featuring Smokescreen/EVERYONE. Enjoy!
> 
> There will be tags for each individual chapter, and the tag list will grow as I post more chapters.
> 
> Chapter 1 tags: Mating Cycles / In Heat, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Fantasizing, Racing, Hiding Medical Issues, Medical Examination, Awkward Crush, feeling driven to do stupid shit, Smokescreen/Optimus.

It began with restlessness, that didn’t go away even after a drive down Route 66. Smokescreen bugged Ratchet to let him go wind through the Sierra Nevadas next. Ratchet denied it, saying, “You’ve already had one joyride for the week.”

“But doc,” Smokescreen pleaded, “I’m just...all wound up with nowhere to go. Like I’ve got too much energy.”

“One excursion per week is the rule, otherwise we’re using too much energon and there’s more of a risk of discovery, either by the humans or the Decepticons.”

“...Fine.” Smokescreen stomped off, presumably to cause trouble elsewhere.

\---

The next week, Smokescreen didn’t contact the base when he was supposed to request a groundbridge to return.

“Smokescreen, come in Smokescreen.” No response. “Smokescreen, I know your communicator is in working order. You were supposed to check in an hour ago.”

“Okay, okay! Fine. I just can’t seem to burn this energy off. I’m not even tired, but it says my energon’s low. Just a few more minutes, c’mon.”

“You’re already late. Standby for coordinates.”

“Please, Ratchet!”

“No can do. You’re late again, you lose off-base privileges, you know that.”

All Ratchet got in response was the angry snarl of a V10 messily thrown into a higher gear.

\---

“Optimus.” The Prime turned around to face Ratchet, his faceplates arranging to an expression of mild concern as he felt the worry in his friend’s field. 

“What is bothering you, old friend?”

“I cannot locate Smokescreen. He has either managed to turn his locator off, or is deliberately hiding in a shielded area.”

Optimus’s processor helpfully informed him that lack of a locator signal could mean Smokescreen was in serious trouble, possibly involving the Decepticons.

“What is his last known location?”

Ratchet tapped quickly on the groundbridge’s console. “I bridged him to here, then lost his locator at this point. I attempted to contact him at fifteen minute intervals, but I have received no response thus far.” His shoulders drooped. “Optimus, you don’t think…”

“It could be a minor malfunction, but his inability or unwillingness to contact the base is of serious concern.” By this time, several of the other Autobots had clustered around, curious and worried. Optimus turned to face them. “Ratchet, he may need a medic. Bulkhead and Arcee, you stay behind--” Arcee’s field flashed momentary ire. “--in case this is a plot to draw our attention away from the base.” The winglets on her back relaxed. “Bumblebee, you’re our best scout.”

Bumblebee whistled happily at the praise, but followed it with lower whirrs of worry about his friend.

“Autobots, transform and roll out!”

\---

The bridge deposited them at Smokescreen’s last known location. Bumblebee immediately got to scanning the area. Optimus consulted the maps he had downloaded for any possible information about where Smokescreen may have ended up.

Bumblebee stood up from his examination of tracks on the road, and whistled to get the other bots’ attention. “He went this way.” He pointed, toward a turnoff to a road that went up into the foothills.

“Oh wonderful, he’s up in the mountains. Of course.” Ratchet grumbled.

Bumblebee led the way.

\---

Smokescreen's plating itched, and he'd run outta road. Just great. He’d driven hundreds of miles away from where he’d started and he still felt like it wasn’t enough. He was exhausted - fuel and fluid levels were all low, and temperature was still high - but he felt driven to continue. What the frag was he missing?

He found an overhang under some rocks to shield him from the sun and the sky, parked and transformed. As he drank from a small flask of backup energon, he tried not to think too much. He still didn’t want to go back to the base, and he wasn’t sure why.

\---

The roar of engines, revving at the start of a race. Blistering heat shimmering on the track, every electromagnetic frequency band crowded with lust as they jockeyed for pole position, wanting a good start. He wasn’t sure if he yelled something but he ran, before falling into his alt and accelerating faster than he’d ever gone in his life. He had to outpace them, go faster, harder and longer than any one of them. And then…

“Smokescreen, are you alright?”

...no, it was too soon, he had to keep going, there wasn’t enough time, he didn’t want it to end yet.

“He’s coming out of a slow boot. Looks like he’s overheated.” Smokescreen vaguely heard the hum of a scanner, felt a light touch to his neck plating. He arched into the cool, grounding touch, which quickly withdrew.

“...Ratchet?”

“Oh good, you’re awake. What were you thinking, ignoring all your system warnings?”

“Ratch...don’ wanna go back. Have to keep...going.” He couldn’t get his vocalizer to work properly, every mechanism was full of sand and his coolant lines were dry.

“Ohh, no you don’t. Only place you’re going now is back to the base.”

There was a pause, and the unmistakable field of the one bot he’d looked up to most in his entire life covered him gently. Smokescreen reached out towards Optimus’s field. It was comforting-- he wanted to wrap himself up in it and never leave.

A large hand took his, helping him to stand up. Smokescreen was unsteady on his pedes, and leaned into cool, solid plating. He lost track of what else was going on around him again, as the green light flashed for the race, but he knew he’d be fine.

\---

Smokescreen awoke, more easily this time, and feeling a whole lot better. He blinked as his optical sensors recalibrated, and he tried to sit up. There was a hand on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t try to sit up just quite yet.” Ratchet’s characteristic caring grumpiness was there all right. 

“What happened?”

“Well, you disobeyed orders, and drove yourself into an overheat. We had to go find you the hard way and bridge you back. I’ve given you some energon and coolant - mind the connections - but you’ll likely be wanting more soon. And a trip to the washracks.”

“Can I get that energon?” He was hungry. Ratchet passed him a cube and Smokescreen downed it inelegantly. He managed to place the cube down in a manner that did not earn him an irritated chuff, and proceeded to shut down again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen needs a wash. And some...other things.
> 
> Chapter-specific tags: making friendships awkward, sudden public arousal, some undeveloped OCs that don't matter much, Smokescreen/Bumblebee, UST, one-sided crush fantasy masturbation, showers, shower sex, masturbation, porn, actual lesbian porn kind of

When Smokescreen woke up - a lot faster, this time - he definitely wanted that wash. There was sand in places he didn’t know the medical mumbo-jumbo for.  Ratchet’s hand was at his elbow, his arm supportive, comforting around Smokescreen’s back. He wanted to lean into Ratchet--

“Doc, I think I can make it to the washracks on my own.”

“It'll do no bot any good if you just overexert yourself again.” Ratchet was right. Not like he was gonna admit it, though.

Smokescreen grumbled, and swung his legs over the side of the medical berth.

“Bumblebee!” Ratchet’s voice carried across the main floor of the base, “Come here and help.”

Bumblebee whistled concern at Smokescreen, as he helped Ratchet get Smokescreen standing, and then guided him to the washracks.

“Thanks Bee, but I’m fine. Really.”

The tap squeaked a bit as Bumblebee turned it, and cool water fell next to Smokescreen. He stepped into the stream, the water carrying away the last of the extra heat in his frame with the dirt. Smokescreen let himself relax, his plating loosening a bit as he stretched to get the water into every little nook. He stood, the droplets beating down on him, just letting himself feel the sensation. The water beaded up on the waxy gloss of his plating, sparkling over the pearlescent white paint.

Smokescreen heard Bumblebee vocalize an inquiry.

“Yeah, sure. I’m...I’m still a bit outta it, I guess. Thanks.”

He heard Bumblebee beep “ _no prob_ ” before he felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, steadying, as the other got to sudsing his backstruts.

It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before, but when Bumblebee’s headlights brushed against Smokescreen’s back, he felt his engine suddenly rev up to a sultry growl, and he had to stuff his EM field in a box.

What. The. _Frag_.

Why the hell would he react like that, to his _friend_ , to something they’d done a gazillion times before in the same slagging context?

Bee started backwards, surprise and worry suffusing his field. “ _Smokey? You ok?”_

“Yeah, yeah, think so. Sorry, I dunno, must’ve booted up stupid or something.”

_“It’s alright_.”

It was very awkward as Smokescreen hurriedly rinsed the last of the soap off, and Bumblebee stared at everything but his friend.

\---

The awkward hadn’t washed off with the soap, unfortunately. Smokescreen walked to the med bay, with Bumblebee close enough to catch him if he fell but far enough away that they weren’t standing too close together. Because it was still awkward and they sure weren’t talking about how Smokescreen had reacted in the shower. Whatever, it should be over soon and they could y’know - ignore the isolated incident and just go back to the way things were.

Ratchet gave him a cursory scan and said he was free to go back to his room, but --

“You’re officially relieved from duty, and NO driving.”

Smokescreen managed to not reply with more than a nod. Ratchet dismissed him and Bumblebee with a wave. Bumblebee wandered off to the main room. Smokescreen didn’t feel like hanging out with the kids - besides, he _was_ still pretty tired. He headed to his room.

Well, this sucked. He’d woken from a nap to the same Primus-damned overcharged feeling he’d had before this whole mess even started. Just great. And he was _bored_. It was late, the kids were back home by now, the other bots probably not interested in hanging out. And he wasn’t allowed to go out for a drive, but…he did have one idea about what to do about that charge.

He settled back on his berth, and called up some favorite memories. He’d had an old vid, back on Cybertron now unfortunately, that never failed to get him revved. The setup was stupid - something about an illicit affair between a Seeker noble and her lover - but he didn’t care, because the bots in it were not only hot, but they were so clearly INTO each other and enjoying themselves. He remembered the slow pan up long legs, over a cute aft that was pushed out just so, and up to a fantastic pair of wings, which were hiked up at a flirty angle. The flyer looked over her shoulder and smiled. Her expression was so open, welcoming, _happy_ that he couldn’t help but grin too. The other bot in the video was built a lot bigger, pickup truck or something, and she was just SO interested in making her partner squirm and moan, Smokescreen could _feel_ the giddy glee that showed on her faceplates.

The pickup was mouthing along the shivering flyer’s wing attachments when the plating changed from teal to yellow, the ailerons to door handles and the moans to a high binary squeal.

Smokescreen stopped his hand - but didn’t remove it from his interface array. What the scrap. Why was he fantasizing about _Bumblebee?_ I mean, sure, he’d overreacted to the other bot’s COMPLETELY PLATONIC touch in the showers earlier, but...Bumblebee was his friend. He wasn’t interested in Bumblebee...was he? Besides, there was NO way Bumblebee shared that interest. That would be too weird...right?

He tried to reset his imaginings, back to the hot femme couple. There was this one closeup of the flyer’s valve, her skinny legs spread obscenely wide. Everything was glistening with lubricant, and her helm was propped up so he could see her face too. She looked directly at him (well, the camera) for half a sec and he could _feel_ her arousal, her want. Then, of course, her partner teased her and gave her _exactly_ what she wanted.

He usually identified with the truck - bigger, grounder, used her spike a lot but her hands even more - but as he went back through his memories of the video, he found himself identifying with the writhing, screaming flyer pinned under the truck with three fingers in that amazing valve. His hand moved from his spike to lower. Not that he didn’t use his valve or whatever, it was just he generally preferred his spike. _Way_ easier to self-service that way.

But now? Hot damn but he wanted to be on the receiving end of all that attention to his valve. He wanted to squirm under a partner who relentlessly brought him to overload over and over again, who had two digits in his valve and one rubbing his exterior node, and trusted him enough to retract his mask and kiss him.

Primus damn it, not again!

But this time, his hand didn’t stop. He didn’t want to, it felt too _good_. He imagined Bumblebee licking at his neck cables and humming happily. Smokescreen curled his fingers in his valve and imagined it was Bumblebee’s digits stroking his insides. His other hand rubbed over his headlights, and he imagined it was Bumblebee’s glossa on his glass. He felt wrong and weird but he couldn’t stop fantasizing about his friend, it just felt too good and any time he had tried to self-service to anything else, Bumblebee kept creeping back into his processor anyway so -- maybe he just needed to get it out of his system, and he could go back to normal. Yeah.

Suddenly he imagined he was back in the washracks, Bumblebee had him backed up against the wall, digits in his valve pumping away but it wasn’t enough, he needed - “More!” he moaned. Bumblebee buzzed in recognition, then spread Smokescreen’s shaking legs further, lining up his spike. Smokescreen’s helm snapped back to thunk against the wall as Bumblebee pushed into him.

_Yeah_.

That’s what he needed.

He wrapped his arms around Bumblebee’s shoulders and his legs around Bumblebee’s waist and suddenly Bumblebee was _deeper_ inside him and Smokescreen yelled. Bumblebee looked up at him with a querying whistle and Smokescreen said, “I’m good,” and kissed Bumblebee. They kissed slowly at first but then desperately, only breaking away when Bumblebee’s thrusts were too powerful to maintain the contact. Smokescreen’s doorwings were getting repeatedly smashed into the tiled wall but he didn’t CARE because Bumblebee was fragging the Pit out of him and it was what he _needed_. His best friend inside him.

Smokescreen overloaded with a shout and knocked himself peacefully offline soon after.


	3. Smokescreen and the Temple of Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life as usual. Yep. Totally not doing what he's not supposed to.
> 
> Tags: yet more fantasizing, grumpy teammates, Indiana Jones. You heard me.

Smokescreen went about his life with the Autobots as usual. Or at least, he tried to. He resented the increased medical oversight - “What if you drive yourself into nonfunction and we can’t find you?” - now he was hearing Ratchet’s voice in his head. Great.

He couldn’t wait to get away from everyone, and couldn’t get close enough to them either.

He didn’t want to admit to himself, that it had only gotten worse after the incident in the washracks. He’d progressed from overreacting to touch, to having to dismiss ridiculous fantasies multiple times a day. And it wasn’t just Bumblebee.

It was about everyone, as he found himself unconsciously rubbing his thighs together in his seat during a team meeting.

The situation made him jumpy, and he couldn’t figure out how to talk to anyone. Everything was just so awkward, because it seemed like any random thing would set off the “let’s have a wildly inappropriate fantasy” button in Smokescreen’s head.

He just needed a good drive. Yeah.

\---

“What the scrap were you thinking?” Arcee’s voice pierced the darkness that Smokescreen had thought would make good cover to get back into the base. Right, dark meant nothing to her. Besides, there were only two ways in without walking through walls. Arcee came into view as Smokescreen, cover blown, walked through the ground entrance.

A deep but shy rumble spoke up, “Yeah...don’t want you gettin’ into trouble. Especially if there’s ‘Cons around.” Bulkhead was in the main room. It was late, so the kids were at home, and everyone else was probably in recharge.

“I’m fine, guys. I just needed to stretch my pistons a bit.”

“And you had to sneak out to do it?” Arcee accused.

Smokescreen scuffed one pede against the ground.

“Oh, right. You’ve already been out three times this week.” Arcee flipped a dismissive hand at him, the anger clear in her voice.

Smokescreen threw his hands up. “I can’t help it! I couldn’t recharge. I thought…”

“...you thought you’d go get yourself killed by the ‘Cons?!”

“Whoa, whoa, Arcee. Kid’s been havin’ a rough time. Happens to all of us.”

Arcee grumbled, and turned to walk away. “If you go out on my watch again, at least leave a fragging Post-It.”

Bulkhead shrugged, saying, ‘she’s got a point.’

\---

Smokescreen invented deeply, and checked his chronometer. Zero four thirty local time. Okay, time to face the music.

He drove into the main entrance of the base, trying to be quiet and knowing it was completely hopeless.

He knew he wasn’t allowed out, he wasn’t even gonna deny it this time. He just felt...driven to go out, to feel the wind streaking over his windshield, the road still warm on his tires as the desert cooled into night.

There wasn’t even time to clear his vents.

“Are you trying to make things more difficult?” Ratchet stopped him with a single digit pointed at his chest plating.

“No, I…”

“You what. Disobeyed every order you’ve been given, with NO thought to your own safety, or that of the team?”

Smokescreen wanted to sink into the ground and hide.

But it got worse.

He didn’t have to look up to know who had walked up to stand just behind Ratchet.

“Smokescreen. You are grounded, until further notice.”

Smokescreen just stood there, his vents hitching. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t help it - and he knew it didn’t make it okay. Somehow hearing it from Optimus just made it really hit him right in the processor and his spark. He didn’t move until Optimus turned to walk away.

Smokescreen didn’t sleep that night.

\---

Smokescreen was bored. Of course he was bored, he was grounded. No more going outside the base, and he was just as restless as ever.

And couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He tried to focus on the datapad he was reading, Indiana Jones and the What’s-it-Called. He was getting tired of having to look up cultural references constantly and wondered if there was just a movie adaptation instead. Not that he could watch it in his room -- the only television was in the main room. His hand snuck down his uncomfortably too-hot frame as he tried to imagine jungles made out of Terran plants he’d never seen, absentmindedly teasing at seams, rubbing over the pulsing biolights on his thighs. He barely noticed that he’d started rubbing his interface panel cover. Just that he’d felt a bit better, even as his mind wandered. There was a chase, the bad guys were after Indiana, somehow the rough-and-tumble Jeep kept going like nothing was wrong, had to get them away.

He imagined the robot mode of the Jeep would look a lot like how the book described Indiana - he’d have that whole “ruggedly handsome” thing going on. Yeah. Suddenly the book was a whole lot more interesting, now that he’d merged the main character with what could be his alt mode -- he wasn’t thinking of Indiana as human anymore, rather as a Cybertronian. He didn’t really give much thought to how he now had two digits rubbing back and forth over his external node. Smokescreen barely noticed that he’d dropped the datapad, because he just needed more. He could feel his whole body tense as he imagined Indiana-as-a-Jeep finding him stranded in the desert, opened his plating and gave him a jump. Smokescreen would be so grateful, and join Indy’s ragtag team of adventurers. But later that night, after the fire had died down in the camp, he’d go show Indy what he’d been thinking about ever since he slowly onlined his optics to see a handsome stranger offering him his jumper cables.

Smokescreen fell asleep on top of his arm.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, that didn’t last long.

Smokescreen had played through the entire assortment of computer games Raf had given him. He’d tried to drag them out as long as possible -- that was most successful with _Skyrim_ (he particularly liked the dragons, which were totally the old extinct Predacons) -- but even that had only occupied him for a few days. He was completely out of consumable NEW entertainment. Again. He didn’t much feel like surfing the Internet, either. After a while, it felt aimless and just reminded him that he was stuck indoors. Because OF COURSE he’d inevitably ended up on pictures of wide open vistas, long smooth roads, or Earth vehicles that would totally turn into VERY attractive Cybertronians. Scrap. There he went again - he found the heel of his hand pressing against his interface cover. He was stuck in this Pit of a base on a Primus-damned planet _made out of Unicron himself_. As if this could get any worse, his processor drifted to Optimus, the one mech keeping them all together. He always seemed so sure, so in control -- so what would he be like if he just laid back and relaxed for once?

Oh.

_Wow._

Well then.

His processor helpfully offered up an image of Optimus -- _Optimus PRIME_ \-- reclined, his long legs spread invitingly.

Oh scrap. He was not -- he wasn’t gonna -- oh frag it all he was totally going to fantasize about his Prime. Not that he hadn’t before -- there was no bot around but even so he felt his faceplates heat at the thought.

Not like this, though. Before it had always been him submitting to that gentle strength, him falling apart as he heard that voice speak his name.

Now?

Now he wanted to approach Optimus -- he was always more confident in his head -- and say something actually suave for once. And it would work. It would be something else to be alone with that presence, that incredible field and legendary patience.

He’d want Optimus on his back, Smokescreen would tell him, and Optimus would move. That would make him giddy with the rush, the total switch of roles and power.

He would know Optimus would only submit to him because he wanted to, because in some way Smokescreen was worthy of Optimus’s attention, Optimus’s submission. It was somehow more powerful a thought than of Optimus dominating him. It didn’t matter who was fragging whom, that wasn’t the point. The expression of just how much TRUST Optimus placed in him -- yeah. Damn.

He’d only want it if he’d earned it, though. But in his fantasy, he _had_. He’d have the one mech he looked up to most -- never thought he’d so much as _meet_ , much less be on his team or in his berth -- waiting for him, wanting him. Smokescreen would cover his shyness with bravado - badly - and Optimus would totally see through it and not mind in the slightest as Smokescreen explored his Prime’s frame. Smokescreen would ask if he liked kissing and to Smokescreen’s complete surprise, Optimus would say with a teasing rumble filtered through his mask, “Well, why don’t you find out.”

Smokescreen would catch the sparkle in Optimus’s optics, the little nod, the encouraging push of his field, and he’d pepper Optimus’s mask with kisses until it opened, then work on getting Optimus’s intake open too. Then Optimus would submit, would let Smokescreen’s glossa in and give him full access -- and Optimus, Optimus fragging PRIME, would melt beneath him. He’d feel Optimus holding himself back, wanting to move, so Smokescreen would instead, finally getting up from sitting off to the side and swinging his leg over to straddle Optimus’s hips. Smokescreen would rock his hips against Optimus’s, groaning at the friction.

“Good, yeah?” he’d say.

“Yes,” he’d hear. “Yes, Smokescreen.” There’d be a pause, and Optimus would continue quietly. “I want...more, please.”

“Definitely,” he’d say, happy and relieved at the encouragement. Smokescreen trailed a hand down Optimus’s frame spread out beneath him and came to the panel that - he was pretty sure - hid Optimus’s spike. Holy frag he was gonna get Optimus to pop his plating open for him. Smokescreen stroked the seams with his fingers. Optimus moaned, “Right...right there.” So Smokescreen worked harder, until there was the telltale pop and hiss of the protective seal coming undone as Optimus’s plating slid away to reveal his interface equipment, his spike starting to come out of its sheath now that the cover was out of the way.

Smokescreen hesitated, but a large hand guided his to Optimus’s spike, and wrapped around. “Go ahead,” he’d hear. That was all he needed, just that one last push, that one last sign that yes, it was okay, they were really doing this.

Smokescreen’s hand moved to pump Optimus’s spike. Oh Primus, it was _huge_ and he couldn’t quite wrap his hand around it fully, but he didn’t care and he wanted Optimus, wanted all of him because -- he was Optimus. He reached up to kiss him, desperately, his glossa dominating Optimus’s intake and he _let_ him. When Smokescreen backed away, panting, he could see the glow of arousal in Optimus’s optics.

He’d squeeze _just_ right and Optimus’s vents would hitch, before a low groan that sounded like please.

“What was that?” He’d totally heard Optimus. It wouldn’t stop him from wanting to hear it again, though. His frame _ached_ , but he’d want to hear the Prime beg more.

“ _Please_ , Smokescreen...I--” Smokescreen swiped the pad of his digit over the underside of Optimus’ spike, right under the head. Maybe it would have the same effect on Optimus as it did on him.

“-- _ahhhh_.” Oh yeah.

Did he say that last part out loud?

It didn’t matter. Optimus’ voice _resonated_ within him, and with the growling of that massive engine to back it up...he didn’t want to fragging wait anymore.

Smokescreen ground his panel against his own hand, even as he continued to stroke Optimus’ spike. Hey, practice was coming in handy.

Soon, his own panel clicked open in a rush of lubricant as his spike rapidly pressurized. He couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed - both at the exposure and the mess. He paused, unsure of himself. Something compelled him to look up.

Optimus held his gaze. Supportive, undemanding - the usual calm had bloomed, overbright, into a passion that was hard to meet with his own optics, but he couldn’t break the contact either.

So he spoke, instead.

“I’m going to frag you.”

He couldn’t be shy anymore, not with the bright blue flicker of courage dancing in Optimus’ spark through his optics.

He slid his hand down Optimus’ slicked-up spike, his other braced on Optimus’ shoulder, and raised himself up to hover above that thick spike...and ground his twitching valve down on the tip.

Yeah, he was impatient. He was also a _racer_.

His valve stretched and… “Oh FRAG that’s good, _mmh!_ ” He couldn’t stop moving, as his valve entrance opened up more fully around Optimus. He bounced lightly, getting to the widest part. He grit his denta and threw himself into a reckless, skidding E-brake slide, not giving himself any time to adjust.

“FRAG!” He bottomed out, scraping his underside on the bumps.

“I...Optimus, I...frag.” He panted, his lipplates wet, glossa visible. “Ohhh frag.”

He saw Optimus barely manage to not bite his own lip plating when Smokescreen’s valve involuntarily convulsed around him.

“Ow ow ow ohhhhhhhfrag.” He felt Optimus tense, as if to move. “No, I’m okay. It...I’m good. You’re good?” His words came out in a breathless tumble.

“Yes.” Wow, he could fragging feel that _inside him_. Vibrations. Apparently Optimus’ deep voice wasn’t just sexy to listen to.

“Good. I’m gonna move.”

“Go.”

Smokescreen took off, raising himself up on strong thighs before flooring it. There was no starting slow, just energon pumping at a screaming ten-stroke pace through his frame. He drove hard, slicks gripping the ridged track, white smoke burning on the turns.

He could see it. He could see the finish. He didn’t want to leave Optimus behind him. He didn’t know when he’d tossed his helm back and shut his eyes, but he brought his helm forward and opened his optics to look at Optimus’ faceplates. He wasn’t prepared for the power of the pure lust there. Optimus had been watching him ride his spike unabashedly. There was even a bit of a smile.

“...Overload.”

Smokescreen did.

He came screaming over the line, his the line, his systems all redlined.

He felt spent from the exertion in his legs, but the need in him flared back up before his valve had even quit spasming.

Smokescreen wasn’t Formula One. He was built for Le Mans....all 24 grueling hours of it. He wasn’t nearly done, and neither was the big long-hauler underneath him. 

“Sit up,” he’d demand, and Optimus would. He wouldn’t move his arms around Smokescreen’s waist -- Primus, his huge hands would nearly span it -- until Smokescreen would motion for him to. He’d hear a quiet moan as Smokescreen would take Optimus even deeper.

“Yeah, just like that.” Smokescreen would wrap his arms around Optimus’s neck, kiss his chestplates, then make Optimus -- shy because he knew his strength -- meet his optics. Optimus tried to look away but Smokescreen put a hand on his cheekguard, turning his helm.

“Frag me, Optimus.” Smokescreen stared into energon-blue optics that went wide in surprise and delight.

And Optimus moved, rocking his hips up into Smokescreen as his long legs tensed and released. Smokescreen rolled with him, slowly. He was _full_ , so fragging _full_ \-- Optimus’ spike was Primus-damned ENORMOUS -- and perfect. Optimus was thrusting only very shallowly, holding him close, which had the added effect of stimulating his anterior external valve node, and rubbing up against his spike all at once.

Smokescreen buried his face in Optimus’s windshields, shutting his optics off and just _feeling_.

He didn’t even know he was keening until Optimus’s thumb rubbed along his cheekguard. They kissed, slowly pressing components together as they melded into one.

He lay cuddled against Optimus’ front, a big hand on his hip. He ached happily.

Smokescreen came out of his latest and most intense fantasy yet with the realization that he’d made a mess of himself yet again, and if he didn’t wash up he was going to be sticky, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough for at least another minute.

In the washrack, Smokescreen idly wondered if Optimus liked his smokestacks stroked, his windshields rubbed, his thighs petted. He wanted to ask all of those things and more - for real.

But he had no idea how, or if he even could.

He fell asleep, satisfied -- for now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokey is bored again, and has it BAD. First his best friend, then the hero he worships, and now two others close to him? Uh oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: valve fisting, Smokescreen/Arcee, Smokescreen/Bulkhead.

Smokescreen woke to the haze of half-remembered dreams. He couldn’t quite place what they were about --

_letting him just go all the way for once --_

or where --

_he needed more, faster, the desert flats billowing into dust behind him_

\-- but he woke with his panels popped and a wet spot underneath him.

Well, that happened. A mech’s body liked to test systems while he was asleep. Normal, right? He’d just take care of it before getting fueled.

He tried to remember his dreams, but they slipped away from him. Instead, his thoughts drifted to someone closer to home. _Oh Primus, now you’re thinking about her,_ a voice in his head would say.  It was quickly drowned out by other thoughts.  Arcee had yelled at him the other day, and underneath the pangs of guilt there was this admiration of how…intense she got.  She kicked a lot of aft no matter WHAT she did.

He found himself wondering if Arcee would have the same ability to toss mechs several times her size around in the berth. She might order him to touch himself, and he’d be embarrassed at first -- but then he’d be unable to stop himself and plead for her touch even as he tried to shrink away from her intense gaze. She’d tell him to turn over and put his aft in the air. He’d feel exposed, but it would turn him on even more. She’d play with his valve, maybe smack his plating, and make him promise to behave.

She’d stick one digit in him at a time, he’d be moaning continually after the third as she finger-fragged him through a first overload. She’d hardly give him time for his valve calipers to stop rhythmically clenching down before she’d press a fourth in and he’d yell into the ground, as his valve gushed lubricant. He’d complain when she withdrew, she’d call him a needy glitch and he’d say, yes, yes he _was_ but he _needed_ her hand back inside him. My hand, really? She’d tease. He’d nod and nod and plead. Then slowly, she’d press her thumb in too, her other hand stroking his spike as the widest part slipped inside him and he _cried_. So full, so fragging full. She wouldn’t move, not at first, and then he’d hiss and moan as he felt the intense but fulfilling stretch of his calipers. He’d try to frag himself on her hand, but she’d stop him with her other hand on his hip, steadying him. Easy, take it easy, she’d tell him. I’ve got you. She’d move slowly, letting him adjust as she increased the length of her strokes.

He wouldn’t do anything but _feel_ , as she’d push him past everything he’d thought himself capable. He’d say her name, the end of it turning into a scream.

When she removed her hand - slowly now - she’d let him rest a bit, stroking his plating soothingly, and then ask him if he was ready for what he really wanted. Yes, Arcee, yes, he’d say.

Then she’d frag him, his calipers achy but her spike would rub along his sensors in ways her fingers and hand hadn’t, and it would be what he needed, to feel the electrical current passing into him, feel her hips slamming into his, her hand rubbing along his spike.

She’d overload, a choked moan and with her hands gripping his hips. He’d feel her transfluid rush into him, conducting her current better than anything else, and the sheer amplitude would knock him almost offline.

He panted, sated. He didn’t want to remove his fingers (three, but much larger than Arcee’s) just yet. It felt...nice to have them there. He expected to lie there for a time as his systems returned to normal.

They didn’t.

He rolled over and tried to think of Cybertron. That worked for about two astroseconds.

He’d wondered about the Wreckers a bit in the past - who hadn’t? - they were famous for their ability to crush any Pitspawn in their way, and for their Unicron-may-care attitudes, tight-knit bond, and legendary afterparties.

There was a Wrecker in this very base.

Here he went again.

Bulkhead cared about his teammates, spark-deep. Smokescreen liked that about him.

He thought that perhaps Bulkhead would be shy, and a bit too gentle, afraid of injuring him. He’d tell the big green bruiser that he _liked_ that strength, and besides, if Bulkhead was worried, Smokescreen could just straddle him and sit on that blunt, softly curved spike.

Yeah, that would be _nice_.

He’d have his digits splayed across Bulkhead’s broad chest to steady himself, as he’d rock slowly, taking that spike into him a bit at a time. He’d bite his lower lip plating and Bulkhead would reassure him. Don’t worry, you’re doing good. He’d encourage Smokescreen. You’ve got this. Just take it a little at a time.

Eventually he’d be all the way down, and oh Primus yes this is what he needed. Bulkhead would look up at him, awed, aroused and a bit worried. I’m fine, Bulkhead, he’d say. Really.

He’d gasp as his calipers would unexpectedly flutter and squeeze around Bulkhead’s thick spike. And then he’d move.

Finally he’d tire but he’d be _so close_. Bulkhead, please...please frag me! He’d cry. Uh, alright, Bulkhead would say, if you think you can take it. Yes, yes! And those strong hands would wrap around his hips and aft and _lift_ him up, up, only to slam back down and he’d moan, higher and higher as he could _feel_ Bulkhead’s deep groans vibrate his plating.

And then he _bounced_ on Bulkhead’s spike, their plating clanging as Bulkhead’s hips pistoned up off the floor and into him.

He drifted back out of his fantasy, with low fuel warnings pinging incessantly into a processor ache. Slowly he realized he was lying in the wet spot from earlier, it was worse than before, and his own transfluid wasn't helping either.

Maybe he had a problem.

Maybe he should go get some energon. And coolant. And a chamois cloth.

Then what? What would he do, after tending to his basic needs? Besides exercise more strenuous than a walk around the increasingly small Autobot base.

He’d done everything he could think of. He was _bored_.

No, not done _everything_. But...nah. He couldn’t just _ask!_

He’d take a walk around the base, his processor would wander, and he’d end up back here. Alone. And with one hell of a pent-up charge.

...the frag else was he gonna do, anyways?

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokey gets a checkup from the local medic, who's been working a few too many long hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: medical checkup, a little Smokey/Ratchet
> 
> Thank you to cousinswar for betaing! :)

“Smokescreen, get in here, you know you’re due for a checkup.” Ratchet’s voice crackled over the comms.

“Aww, do I gotta?”

“As your Chief Medical Officer, yes, you do.”

Smokescreen huffed and made himself presentable. Ratch probably just wanted to make sure he was double triple okay after overheating in the mountains.

Whatever.

\---

It was a normal scan, just going through the motions to make sure Smokescreen had suffered no long lasting damage from his misadventure in the mountains, but there was something...odd about the atmosphere in the room. Smokescreen hardly talked, which was unusual, but he had become quieter as of late. There wasn’t anything on the scans to indicate a problem. It had been hot out, but they were in Earth’s equivalent of the Rust Sea. All of their core temperatures were higher than normal.

He dismissed Smokescreen, and set about entering his report into their database.

There was still something odd going on, he just knew it, but he didn’t know why.

The closest he could come was to-- no. 

There’d been a time, many vorns ago, when he was still in medical school, where he’d gotten the same vibe off a patient.

Well, not really a patient, just another medical student like him, playing the part.

They hadn’t even made it to the apartments. Stirrups certainly could be very useful.

He shook his helm, trying to clear the memory. There was no association between the two. That was far behind him, in both time and distance.

Close quarters, long hours...he’d heard what that could do to bots. Maybe he just needed some distance.

\---

According to the best (only) medical advice around, he was completely fragging fine.

He didn’t feel fine.

Not in a way that he’d feel comfortable bringing up, anyways. He wasn’t about to walk up to Ratchet and say, “Hey, I think there’s something wrong with my interfacing equipment, it won’t fragging shut OFF.”

...Frag.

No.

Seriously?

Ratchet would direct him to lie on the medical berth, put his pedes in the stirrups, and…pop his plating. He’d feel exposed and awkward, but it wouldn’t be in the uncomfortably, definitely unsexy way it had been in the past.

In a fantasy, apparently, the part of his processor that was full of bad ideas and wouldn’t shut up thought this was a great idea, the best and sexiest idea yet.

He’d overheard a snickered “party ambulance” a few times, and now his processor rushed to tell him that yes, Ratchet had all kinds of experience, and expertise.

Oh PRIMUS he’d had it, he’d absolutely had it. He was greater than his base interfacing drive even if it WAS acting up.

He spent the next several hours desperately absorbed in a game about moving cubes around.


	7. National Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I had only posted once in the entirety of 2015, so I decided that I needed to post at least once more before the year was over.
> 
> It's taken me forever to update due to a mix of new job, falling out of the habit on writing and this chapter being really frustratingly full of writer's block for whatever reason.
> 
> Here you go, finally!
> 
> Tags: only a bit of claustrophobia

Smokescreen walked down the hall from his room to the main room of the base. He was distracted - he couldn’t get the fantasies out of his head. It made his circuits heat, sure, but it was also awkward and embarrassing.

It was apparently distracting enough that he walked headfirst into the wall. But it wasn’t the wall at all, as he opened his optics again.

Chestplates. Gorgeous, warm chestplates right in his face. Windshields pressed against his plating. He felt all of his interfacing systems prime in a rush, his fans kicking on high, his engine whining as it revved up hard.

Oh PRIMUS.

“Scrap! ...Sorry, Optimus.”

Smokescreen scrambled backwards, trying desperately to calm his overenthusiastic systems. Damned things didn’t care about embarrassing him, or making life awkward for his friends, _clearly_. Primus, he was mortified. What if Optimus had _noticed?!_ He had no idea how to handle his Prime noticing his valve deciding now was a good time to cycle on.

“I am fine, Smokescreen. You seem to be lost in thought. Is everything alright?”

Smokescreen stared wide-eyed for a second before his processor could come up with a response. “I...uh, yes. Just...thinking.”

“If you would like to talk, you have only to ask.”

“...Thanks, Optimus.”

If only he could just ask about other...things.

Smokescreen caught his optics sliding down to focus on Optimus’s windshields again.

Time froze for a few processor ticks and Smokescreen snapped his optics’ focus away. Anywhere but back directly at Optimus’ windshields.

“Yeah...uh...I’m going to go play games with Miko. See you,” he said lamely, before pretending his intention had been to walk into the main room all along.

Smokescreen made it a few steps down the hall away from Optimus before finding himself turning to...covertly check out his boss’s aft.

DAMN IT.

Smokescreen _really_ hoped Optimus hadn’t noticed. He was just making everything worse for himself…

He forced his gaze back forward and made himself put one pede in front of the other.

\---

Smokescreen entered the “living room,” then found himself standing still, utterly transfixed. The roar of engines transported him to fantasyland. He shifted his weight unconsciously, as he stared at the lead car, watching the others try to pass on the curves. He didn’t notice that he’d bent forward to lean his forearms on the back of the Autobot-sized couch.

“Aww yeah, look at them go!” Miko shrieked happily, bouncing. “Woo!”

Bumblebee whistled, clearly enjoying the on screen thrill as well. Neither of them turned around to acknowledge him, so focused were they on the race.

“...aaaand coming up, jockeying for the lead, we’ve got #30 Patrick riding close behind #2, taking advantage of that slipstream but not letting _any_ one in behind her,” the announcer kept up a patter of commentary.

Smokescreen stared, the sounds of the commentator, the squeals of glee and roar of engines through the giant subwoofer Miko had insisted upon installing shaking vibrations through his struts. He wasn’t watching the race anymore, no, he was _in_ it, leading the pack. He could feel all of them behind him, every one of them hellbent on crawling up his tailpipe and overtaking him.

There was a tiny _click_ , and Smokescreen froze in place. No. Nonononono not _here!_

“I...should go.” He tried not to run back to his room.

He could barely hear as he walked a bit too quickly and stiffly into the housing area, Miko stating, “What’s his problem?”

Bee shrugged, a bit awkwardly. Not that Miko would notice why.

“Eh, whatever.” The TV blared on.

He couldn’t get NASCAR out of his head.

\---

Smokescreen scuttled out of the living room, desperate to get far enough away that they couldn’t hear his engine rev, since he was helpless to stop it. Or do anything about his electromagnetic field, for that matter.

He started down the hall toward his room, but then came to a stop in the middle of the hall, realizing he’d gone the wrong way. He stood in the dim, dingy hallway. The fluorescent lights flickered, and in the microseconds of darkness before his optics had adjusted, the metal walls closed in on him, all of his senses began to overwhelm him with data, searching for his relative location, a way out. That the mesa was millions of tons of sandstone and iron oxide and concrete and steel of the base above him, around him, below him.

He needed out, now, didn’t care if he needed to blast his way out. The transformation cog deep inside him strained to change forms to the one built for speed but there wasn’t SPACE.

One footfall after another echoed in the long hall, energon pumping in his hoses, couldn’t hear anything but the strain of his engine spinning up in neutral. His transformation cog trying to hook up and grinding horribly against it as he spent all his willpower on keeping himself moving forward.

He dove forward into a rolling transformation as soon as he hit the first space big enough. Didn’t notice anything going on but some of him knew that it had to be the main room. Rubber squealed against concrete, the heat burning into acrid smoke.

The roar of the massive V10 in the tunnel transported him outside to the bright blue glare of big skies and the wide open wilds.

Releasing the clutch like a skip of joy, he caught himself in fourth then pushed himself, running his pistons faster pounding the pavement that disappeared beneath him.

It was only him and the road ahead.

It felt good. Better.

Better.

But not _enough_.

He settled into fifth gear and let himself _go_.


	8. Going The Distance

Smokescreen turned down the road, not caring what the sign said, not caring what his GPS said, deliberately ignoring where he was going. Not like he couldn't find his way back. He wanted to be lost, now. Just him and the desert road, flat for miles. He needed to go, go hard, and not come back until he was exhausted. Or something. That was the closest thing to the feeling he had at the moment, since he couldn’t quite pin down the entirety of the feeling in the back of his processor, deep beneath every other process. This feeling drove him onward, forward until dawn hit. Even if he did drive for that long, he wasn’t sure if it would quiet down the feeling deep down. He wasn’t even sure if it was in his processor anymore. Maybe it was all the way down in his spark.

Who the frag knew. It didn’t matter. He was on the road, passing into the oncoming lane - come on, there was no traffic for ages - and passing a tractor. He’d even bothered to slow down to 85 miles an hour before he got into the visual range of the tractor’s driver before passing him. After he got beyond the tractor’s vision, he floored it back up into 200 kph. And over. Wasn’t hard and he needed to fragging run.

Smokescreen still wasn’t sure where he was going, but slag it all, he got out, he needed this. He ignored the comms, the pings, and he was gonna keep going until they dragged him back to the base in Nevada or he got a low fuel warning. He wasn’t sure he was in the same state anymore.

Smokescreen drove on with the impulse to go somewhere new, somewhere different.

Hours later - it had to be hours later - he couldn’t find anything on the local radio stations besides country music and norteño. He was going to scroll through the frequencies absentmindedly again, but he caught a strain that grabbed his attention.

> _ Ella era tan diferente a las otras muchachas _
> 
> _ Jamas le intereso el amor de algún varón. _
> 
> _ Ella era diferente y a su mejor amiga le regalaba flores _
> 
> _ Ella era diferente, pero así es la vida de algunos amores. _

Smokescreen’s translation software was thankfully a Pit of a lot more powerful and accurate than the human translation programs - not like he hadn’t downloaded and translated every known major human language when he’d gotten to Earth after he’d learned the Elites did when they got to another planet. No sense in getting caught off guard because you couldn’t understand the language. It was just the smart thing to do. And it made you look smart too. Culture stuff was harder.

He still didn’t quite understand the complexities of the song. Human gender was - well, he still didn’t get it right all the time, okay? It was pretty hard. Cybertronians had toooootally different ways of understanding themselves in vaguely similar ways. All those comments about humans’ interfacing equipment didn’t really make sense to him, especially knowing that humans were capable of multiple methods of getting kids. Whatever. At least Jack hadn’t yelled at him about it recently. Or Primus forbid, gotten a lecture from Agent Fowler. He had to spend half his time translating all the “gosh darned” idioms the man favored, and some of them seemed to be specific to the man himself! Those conversations were always embarrassing. They were worse than the time he’d gotten ketchup in his seats. Those parts ended up in some really uncomfortable places in his root mode.

Smokescreen mentally shook himself and went back to just driving, not thinking about anything at all. It was the most comfortable thing to do at this point, because otherwise he was just gonna think about all the things he couldn’t do.

—-

Smokescreen was pretty sure he wasn’t in Nevada anymore. Or Kansas, wherever that was - there were a heck of a lot too much hills for that.

Okay, definitely not. Why in Primus’ name would they put THIS MANY telescopes all over the place?! Seriously, he’d been driving for - okay, a while, he still was pointedly ignoring his chronometer - and there were still more of them. Spaced quite far apart, on a human scale. He could feel the prickles of electromagnetic radiation picked up and used by the telescopes when he passed close enough. He drove up to what looked to be some sort of visitor center since there was a road right next to one of the telescopes, and he didn’t feel like driving off road. He transformed, and lay on his back underneath it. He shuttered his optics, letting himself just feel, the aches of his long hard drive, the slow burning of his interface systems that never truly went away anymore, the rushing of the wind down the wide, flat plains, the sound of animal life around him. Crickets vibrating chirps, and antelope snorting nearby, unsure of what to make of the strange being that smelled somewhat like a car but looked like a very large human near them. He closed out all those inputs and listened to the radio telescope. If he visualized it, there were some really pretty patterns to it. He supposed it was the background radiation of space, but he wouldn’t know how to recognize that since he was stuck in stasis for the entirety of his ride from Cybertron to Earth, and he’d never been off-planet otherwise, or bothered to go to the observatories on Cybertron. Not like the sounds and data would be the same, anyways, since this was a human installation and… Frag.

Smokescreen really honestly wished he was on Cybertron. Everything would be easier. He didn’t give a scrap that Shockwave was there now. It would be easier. There were still a lot of bots there. Bots that would get it. Bots that would let him get out and stretch his pistons.

Bots that would understand and maybe be easier for him to ask about this. Maybe even ask for… yeah.

He remembered the first time he’d seen a race, a real race, screaming down the streets heading for the flats outside Praxus, and someone had told him the real reason why the mechs were going so fast, ignoring everything.

It had been amazing, his optics were glued to the mechs until they disappeared outside the city limits in a cloud of rust particles and metal dust.

He had been too far away to feel the fields of the mechs in the race, but he was able to feel the fields of the mechs next to him, and that certainly gave him an idea of what they’d thought about about the race.

He hadn’t had to be alone in the barracks for the Elites that off shift. Overdrive had certainly lived up to his name, and Smokescreen had taken up his offer of sharing a charge very enthusiastically. That had been a good night, and his spike had been so sore the next day. Overdrive liked to bounce on top, and slag he was tight. It had been enough for Smokescreen to overload multiple times until they collapsed in strutless exhaustion. Then five minutes later Overdrive got up and straddled Smokescreen’s face, and Smokescreen licked Overdrive’s valve above him until Overdrive keened - they had managed to be reasonably quiet until then even though the mattress squeaked a bit - and the mechs on the other side of the wall banged on it to get them to shut up. They giggled and fell asleep wrapped around each other in order to fit on the regulation too-small pallet they called a berth in the barracks.

Smokescreen came out of his reverie, listening to the sounds of the universe and longing for home, Cybertron, so fragging far away.

He even thought he heard a few little microwaves in the EM spectrum coming through the telescope. He lazily transformed without bothering to stand up first and backed out of the little parking lot in the middle of Nowhere, USA, and still didn’t feel like going back to the base. It wasn’t home, and it wasn’t gonna help.

Smokescreen kept going on the one road out of there and thought he’d had enough of the flats. When a turn that looked like it would go up into some mountains showed up, he took it, not being sure, still not checking his GPS. He wanted the adventure, wanted the uncertainty.

He turned east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> "She was so different from other girls
> 
> She never cared for any man's love
> 
> She was different and she gave her best friend flowers
> 
> She was different, but so goes the life of some loves."
> 
> The full song is “Era Diferente” by Los Tigres Del Norte.
> 
> Also yes the title is a reference to the Cake song of the same name.


	9. Start Your Engines

Sure enough, he started climbing. When he took a nice left hand turn, it felt like how he’d imagined the track at NASCAR would feel.

NASCAR… frag. Right. That was why he’d ended up out here in the first place. That and the slagging feeling of the base collapsing on top of him and needing to be outside.

He let himself drift around the corner, trying to hug the inside edge, the shortest route through without losing control. He let his processor wander, let himself imagine the feeling of the press of other vehicles next to him. He didn’t care that they were human vehicles, he just wanted to be in a race. Slag, he could probably fake his way in with a good enough holomatter avatar as his “driver”.

Smokescreen let himself be lost in his fantasy, let himself not care that he’d scanned a Le Mans car with a giant number 38 on his doors, he could be in NASCAR if he wanted. He could handle speeds over 200 mph without violently flying off the track. He screamed around another corner of lazy foothill roads, not a damn lifeform for miles.

He supposed the sound of his engine might’ve scared some of the critters off. Proooobably for the best. He’d heard crashes with wildlife were singularly unpleasant, and the Optics of Disappointment that Optimus Prime would give him if he injured an animal would be of the nuclear uncomfortableness variety he couldn’t endure. Not like he WANTED to deal with that anyways!

He could sneak into the race, no one the wiser that it was actually the _car_ doing the driving.

Final checks through, he rolled up to his starting position. He paid only a subroutine’s worth of attention to the announcer’s words.  Then he heard it --

_“Drivers, start your engines!”_

Then there would be the sudden and deafening upswell of noise, the growl of engines revving all together at the start, pressed so close he’d be inside their fields if they were Cybertronian. So he could let his field out fully, feeling the reflected little electromagnetic radiation all around him, the thousands of cellphones, the strong transmission from the television cameras. He could feel the vibrations through every piece of plating. But his focus shifted back to the grand marshal, away from the other racers and the screaming crowd. He had optics only for the flag man.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

_GO!_

The first row of cars fell in behind the pace car, the next ones behind them coming in as soon as there was room. The pack kept in formation, quickly speeding up to match the cutely checkered pace car before them, a 1986 Corvette. Lapping the track once, Smokescreen could feel his tires begin to heat up and connect with the track better. There were some good reasons for the warm up laps - including getting a look at the competition around him. They passed the start again, and the only problem with this was that he wanted to just go already, slag staying in formation and keeping his speed down. The pack came into the other turn, kept tight together through the straightaway then looped back around to the start.

The pace car turned inward, into the pits and out of the way of the racers.

This was it.

The green flag fell.

Smokescreen dumped the clutch, catching his already spinning transmission in a higher gear, lurching forward with a jerk that could have flattened a human driver into his seats. At first it was all he could do to keep up with the pack, as they all screeched upwards through their gearboxes and tried to be the fastest to reach the usual lap speeds. Cars came within inches of him, nosing at his bumper, drafting behind him in his slipstream.

Which felt intrusive, Primus, they were practically on top of him. He knew his faceplates would have flushed bright blue had he been in root mode. Everybody knew spoilers and wings were Pit-damned sensitive, and a mech could feel that in a … situation like this. It was a really forward move, especially for a stranger. In quite a few cases it would get the mech trying it an audial full of awful square waves plus swearing. If they didn't back off, well, nobody would give the unwanted leading mech a citation for weapons discharge in city limits, if the following mech wasn’t too badly singed. But right now, it felt good - the pleasure of other drives so close behind him, heightened by the dangers of racing, the unknown of who exactly was behind him - and the knowledge that the human driver in the car behind him couldn’t possibly know what sort of effect this was having on Smokescreen right now.

But Smokescreen was in it to win it, and pressed forward, taking up all the space in front of him, looking for avenues to overtake the others on the track. If he moved to the outside, he had more room to maneuver, but he’d lose a lot of time on the turns since he took the longer route. On the inside of the oval track, there was no room for errors, all the racers pressed close together, trying to defend their spots further up from those trying to take it from them. The most reliable method for passing was trying to outmaneuver and gain a lead on the straightways before they had to tuck into the next turn. Meaning everyone that wanted a better spot would go for it then. Of course, there were the random and chaotic moments of chance that a driver could take, outside of that pattern.

Not that he would be able to put his superior Cybertronian speed to use in a NASCAR race. Smokescreen hated restrictor plate racing. The plate limited the amount of air that could get into an engine, reducing the amount of power he could put to the road at any time, and ultimately the total top speeds. Granted it was for a good reason - those YouTube crash videos gave him sympathetic pain because frag he HAD a lot of those parts! - but the idea just sat wrong with him. It was a chokehold. A leash. Like the one he was stuck on now (okay, well until he had done the equivalent of dug under the fence and gotten out) but frag he needed this!

He fell back to reality for a moment. He knew he had to control his speed, he had to be more careful here than on a road he knew well, go slower and keep his tires sticking, aggressively downshifting before the turns to control his speed through and out. He didn’t really feel like flying into a telephone pole today. That would be the icing on the cake for Ratchet and the others, wouldn’t it? He could hear the medic’s mocking and nooooooo he wasn’t gonna think about this now. If he stayed on the damn road, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Smokescreen dove back into his fantasy, let himself think the other cars were Cybertronians racing with him, each vying to show off their strength and skill. He could feel the heat build up inside again, past the low burn it had been at, and that wasn’t just his engine.

He dodged between other racers on the next straightaway, used some of the reshuffling right before the next turn to advance again. Smokescreen paid attention to the other drivers only because they were there, shutting out everything but that he was racing, that he was gaining on the lead car. He could feel the others on his tail, the vibrations of their engines traveling through his tires and into his struts. And other parts. He had been worked up before this race, and he was going to need a nice long cooldown. But he wasn’t gonna get that satisfaction unless he paid attention and won this thing.

Somehow, in the body language of the racers ahead of him, he could sense that there was going to be an opening and he gunned it, tires smoking from the drift on the curve. Shot out front and didn’t look back.

Smokescreen knew he would have to fight to maintain his position at the head of the pack, but the fact that he was at the front of all of them spurred him on more than trying to get to the front had. He wanted to be chased. He wanted to win. He wanted all of the other racers behind him staring at his aft, trying their damndest to figure out how to catch up to him. To catch him. But now that he was in the lead, he wasn’t about to give it up for anything. He was going to lead them all the way across the finish line and claim the win for himself. He knew none of them would be able to catch up to him.

He was still in the rolling foothills, not much in the way of turns really, but getting a little hilly. He reveled in the pull of his steering on the turns, the fight against the centripetal forces that threatened to throw him off the track and crashing into the sidelines. He would master it. He could keep himself going through whatever this road wanted to throw at him.


	10. No Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being stuck on Earth sucks, the Autobahn is amazing, and a mysterious and shiny new racer appears!

Maybe the car nosing up his aft earlier was a light sky blue - he didn’t pay much attention at first, but the car was dogging his bumper, kept following him even as Smokescreen moved his way up in the pack. Smokescreen would overtake one car, and even if he got ahead for a little while with other cars as a buffer, then somehow the blue car would always find some way to be on his tail. Or the blue car would manage to sidle up next to him when Smokescreen was focusing on trying to make his next move to move ahead. Just who WAS this guy anyways?

As a human driver, he’d not have an idea of the connotation of his actions - but then again, humans DID call tailgating “riding my ass”. So there was that. He still couldn’t know that Smokescreen was getting an illicit thrill from the feeling of being chased, of having another mech pursuing him so closely, trying to herd him onward, get his energon hot and his pistons pounding. Warming up his struts and letting him feel the mech’s field, listen to all the dirty comm messages, or if he was close enough, he could even say it out loud. Which of course anyone else close enough could also hear. But the blue car wasn’t doing any of those other things - the aggressive driving was just a human in a car trying to win a race.

Smokescreen started feeling the rise in altitude, the tighter turns as he climbed into the foothills. The straightaways became fewer and shorter as the track became more complex, but that never stopped the drivers behind him, or the ones still ahead of him leading the pack. He was going to have to get more assertive, if he had any hope of overtaking them. He got his chance right before the next turn to move up another place, but he was soon having to defend his spot from the driver in the sky blue car behind him. Smokescreen continued to make attempts to pass, but soon he was warring for every gain with the driver of the blue car who was determined to make it to the top, the same as him. 

He could see the checkered flag at the end line, raised high, poised to snap down and define the end of the race.

But it never came.

\------

Smokescreen exited the right hand turn, still with a decent lead on the pack behind him, but he knew he could lose that distance in an instant if he screwed up. 

There was a tunnel ahead of him. That was unexpected and definitely not part of a NASCAR track. But they were all funneling into it full speed ahead. 

The tunnel bounced all the sound from his own engine back to his audials, making it an order of magnitude louder, but that was nothing on the deafening roar of when an entire NASCAR race entered the tunnel behind him. The sound was all around him, vibrating _inside_ him. A symphony of power in engines given full throttle, the different cars each with their own unique timbre, the tune of their engines and exhaust making each into their own multitonal instrument. The deafening roar was over too soon as they exploded out of the tunnel.

As Smokescreen exited, his fantasy took a different turn, and he imagined he was in more of a European style race. On the Autobahn. He really wanted to go there but he hadn't yet, but that hadn't stopped him from wanting, and looking up pictures online. He was going to go there, he was going to race on public highways with no concept of speed limits in the middle of beautiful rolling hills. With European sports cars with names and pedigrees dating back to well — it wasn't a long time by Cybertronian standards — but over a century sure was ages for a human.

Primus, _Cybertron_. All of this slag would be so much easier if he were just on Cybertron right now, and wasn’t crammed into a cometary landing craft after the Omega Key piece was crammed _inside_ him by Alpha Trion, the crafty old slagger, and stuck here on Earth fighting a frag ton of glitched up Decepticons day and night.

Smokescreen had to control his speed, had to be more careful here than on a road he knew well, go slower and keep his tires sticking, aggressively downshifting before the turns to control his speed through and out. He didn’t really feel like flying off a cliff today. Besides, it really wouldn’t be worth the talking to he would get from Ratchet AND Optimus if they had to winch him out of a ravine. Frag. He wasn’t gonna think about the growl Optimus’s engine would make as he pulled Smokescreen’s trashed frame out of the mountains. Nope. Not at all.

The road’s twists and turns took his mind back to the present. Or present fantasy, really. The sky blue stock car that had been nosing up his rear from the NASCAR race had followed him through the tunnel. It appeared to morph behind him, the laser green glitter of a new altmode scan scattering over a frame that rippled with microtransformations. The compact frame flattened and widened to hug the road better, the sound of the engine deepened into something with a whole lot more capacity and cylinders. 

Smokescreen couldn’t quite tell what his chaser had transformed into in his rear sights, but as the newly upgraded challenger crept up on his right, he got a better look at them.

Frag. Some kind of supercar. A rare one - he couldn’t immediately identify it. He searched his databanks and came up with an answer.

No way. A Koenigsegg CCXR. They had only made a few, but they were insanely powerful. This was going to be a tough car to beat, if he wanted to keep his win. Not that he would mind watching that aft - wide hips flaring over grippy thick tires, the sound of a 4.7 liter twin-supercharged aluminum V8 pouring over a thousand horsepower and 740 pound-feet of torque directly into the road - but that power translated to raw, wild acceleration and a top speed he knew was probably somewhere over 250 miles an hour. But that was only if the car was _just_ a car.

There was something else familiar about the mech. And it had to be a mech, to transform like that. Something about the light blue, and the blisteringly fast pace this Earth alt mode was capable of. Something about why this particular alt mode would be chosen if the mech ever came to Earth.

Smokescreen figured it out just as the Koenigsegg put that V8 into a higher gear and roared past him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO IT IS IN THE COMMENTS muahahahaah


End file.
